Who Really Shot the Archduke?
by labonsoirfemme
Summary: It's always a little awkward when your brother's best friend is your TA. Jon x Sansa.


From a tumblr prompt asking for a Jon x Sansa College AU.

And half-way through I realized that being a TA is totally like being a member of the Night's Watch.

* * *

She'd only started taking political science classes because of Joffrey and his family. Mr. Baratheon was a senator and Mrs. Baratheon had said it was important for women to understand how men had shaped the world they'd all been dumped in, so she'd switched over from English in her sophomore year. But then Joffrey'd dumped her during an argument in the middle of the night, shoved her clothes and the spare pair of heels she'd been keeping in his closet into her arms, and kicked her out.

For a week or two, she'd considered changing majors back to English. But that would have put her out for another year and she didn't want to do that, not matter how much Robb joked that everyone took a "Victory Lap" these days. So she'd sucked it up and pored over the course catalogue, looking for courses that Joffrey'd never dreamed of taking. American politics was the Baratheon way, which is how Sansa found herself sitting in Poli Sci 339 – International Conflict.

Her professor was an older lady with a thick knitted cowl and a silver peter-pan haircut, a total departure from the sausage fest that she'd endured at Joffrey's side. She was rattling off all these reasons why the Pelopennesian War was still like, A Thing, and Sansa was trying hard to keep up on her notes that she didn't even hear the door to the lecture hall open and close. Only when Dr. Johnson chuckled that "it could be four in the afternoon and Jon Snow would still look like he'd just rolled out of bed" did Sansa's pen suddenly spin out of her hand.

* * *

Of course, they started running into each other everywhere after that, because that's the kind of karma that Sansa possessed. Jeyne said that it's really not that surprising, because she'd always spent every waking minute with Joffrey for two and a half years, and everyone knew that the TAs and the upperclassmen all hung out at the same places.

She bought him coffee one day (medium, dark roast, cream, no sugar) when she'd seen him frowning at his computer screen in the coffee shop, surrounded by over-turned books and highlighted printouts with the recognizable J-Stor logo in the corner. His mug had been sitting empty long enough that the dregs of it had already dried into a stain in the bottom, and if he was so engrossed in his work that he hadn't seen her come in, then he certainly hadn't even thought about getting a refill. He eventually paid her back with a Bud Light during happy hour at the sports bar, when she'd been trying to wave down a bartender, but hadn't been single long enough to make friends with any of them. When crisp autumn air caused her to hike her scarf higher on her neck, she ran into him at the door of the greek restaurant on the square. She wanted to get a gyro to go, but he stuffed his hands into his pockets and asked her with a cocked head if she wanted to sit down and talk about that article from yesterday's class.

And she was _totally_ fine writing her paper for a little while. The more she researched the First World War, the more she realized how underrated it was, and she figured she could use lines from Sassoon or Owen to break up her sections. But then Dr. Johnson announced that Jon would be reading them all first, and Sansa started freaking out every time she sat down to write. Nothing sounded smart enough, maybe the poetry was dumb, maybe she was oversimplifying everything, was her introduction interesting enough?

For some reason, she went to his office to hand it in, instead of dropping it into his box in the secretary's office. Well, truthfully, she knew the reason. She _had_ written up a post-it for the front that summarized what she was going to say to him, but she only had pink post-its and seeing it sit under her title, "Who _Really_ Shot the Archduke?: Alliance Systems and World War I," just looked completely ridiculous.

His door was all the way at the end of the hall, and as soon as she knocked and opened the it, she knew that this had to have been some sort of storage room in the original plans. Jon did a double take and said her name in surprise when she poked her head around the edge of the door. Well, more like one and half of her name, because he only got the first syllable out before he cleared his throat and finally said it in full, hands flitting over the line of buttons under his collarbone.

"I have my paper," she told him, stepping inside the tiny tiled room. He pushed his glasses up and held his hand out, but she raised the sheaf of papers (_25-30 pages, double-spaced, 12-point font_) until the top edge rasped against her nose. "Jon, you can't laugh at it," was what she meant to say, but it came out more like a plea, and she nearly winced at the sound of it.

A strange look flitted across his face, almost like affection, but it wasn't how Robb or her father ever looked at her. Then it settled into a soft smile and he pushed his chair back to walk around the table. "I won't laugh at it, I promise." He held his hand out again and Sansa gingerly passed the paper off to him. His eyes ran over her heading and he chuckled at her title, and he rotated the paper a turn or two between his thumbs and forefingers. "I doubt I could laugh at anything you turn in."

Sansa rolled her eyes and hooked her fingertips over the edge of a nearby bookshelf. "You haven't even read it yet," she pointed out, and Jon shrugs his shoulders underneath his navy henley. It seemed all he owned were plain tees and henleys and flannel button-downs, not counting the suits Sansa'd seen him in for church and parties her parents had hosted, but she couldn't say he looked…unkempt or anything.

"I don't need to," Jon replied. "You've never done anything half-way. I'm sure it's great."

Sansa used to do just fine with praise, but recently it got harder for her to accept, so she tugged her lower lip between her teeth and searched for something to say. Jon suddenly dropped his gaze from her face and walked back around his desk, setting her paper on top of a stack of articles about nuclear non-proliferation. "Just…wait until you read it before you form any opinions," she finally offered in a flat voice, and Jon peered at her over the top rim of his glasses for a long beat.

"Alright," he said, mouth pulled to one side. It made his third-day beard crinkle along his cheek, and Sansa had to pull her eyes up a few inches to re-meet his eyes. "You're going home for Thanksgiving?"

"Yep. Leaving in the morning."

He leaned back and laced his fingers over his stomach. "Drive safely, then. Tell your mother I say hello."

Sansa bobbed a nod, cast a final glance over her paper, sitting there so innocuously, within his arm's reach, and then backed out of the room before she gave into her urge to snatch it back and try to re-write the whole damn thing before the midnight deadline.

* * *

She ended up with an A in the class, and when she ran into him in the coffee shop towards the end of finals, she fiddled with the corner of his table and haltingly asked if it had been because he'd known her before class. He did that weird fidgeting thing again, when she'd tapped his shoulder, pushing his curls behind his ear and twitching the hems of his sleeves up his arms.

"No," he said, frowning. "Sansa—that paper was _really_ good. A little rushed at times, but I could tell you were trying to keep it in the page range. You should take Dr. Wren's class on international organizations next semester, since the whole reason the EU exists goes back to what you concluded in your paper." He paused, and then continued, "I'm—I'm not TAing that one so I could…see you more."

She waited for him to elaborate, staring at his hands as they twirled a pen around and around and around. His forearms were ridiculously well-defined. how did he have time to go to the gym? "Yeah, that sounds interesting," was all she said when she realized he had looked up from the table and was watching her face. "Wren, right? I'll write that down."

"I can always email it to you later. Good luck on your finals." He was giving her a graceful exit, complete with a warm smile, and Sansa took it.

* * *

If she had known that she was going to run into Jon at this party, she would have stopped like, three drinks ago. Maybe four. No, she wouldn't have even left her apartment. But there she was, drunk as a skunk off of eggnog and bourbon and Jon was there too, and goddamnit if the hot lumberjack professor thoughts didn't rise up on their own.

Which, of course, is why she opened with "You can't teach with a Masters, can you?" and Jon looked at her face, looked at her silver dress, and tossed back the shot in his hand.

"Lucky for me, I don't want to teach," he said, and snagged her cup even as she half-heartedly protested. "Please tell me there's alcohol in this."

"No. I'm completely sober," Sansa insisted, and even though she was _clearly_ drunk, apparently she was convincing enough that Jon underestimated what he was testing.

He made a face and seemed to consider something for a fraction of a second, at least until she looked down and saw that her black tights had a run up the front of her thigh. "Oh, noooooo," she sighed, grabbing onto his bicep (DEFINITELY A LUMBERJACK, her mind screamed) and drawing that leg up to run her finger up the gash.

"Okay, I'm finding where you got this drink, because I need one," Jon said under his breath, and passed her hand off to Jeyne, who had her eyebrows hiked up her forehead as she watched the two of them. Jeyne leaned in close and tried to tell Sansa that Jon was, like, _totally_ into her, like, Sansa should have _seen_ the way his eyes bugged out like a Looney Toons Animaniac when he saw her. But that couldn't be the case, Sansa knew, because there was just no _way_ a guy that wears that much flannel is into a sorority girl.

And besides, "Why do you always do that?" Sansa asked him later in the doorway between the kitchen and living room.

Jon swallowed and tugged at his collar. "Do what?" His solo cup was half empty, but this was a red one, not the blue one she'd seen him with earlier.

"_That_," Sansa said helpfully, pointing at his collar. "And _that_," pointing where he was running his finger under the rolled cuff of his shirt. "You mess with your clothes when I'm around. I'm not my mom, you know. I don't think that you should be dressing fancier or anything. I _like_ your clothes, anyway."

Jon laughed. "They're nothing special," he told her, and reached out to steady her when someone jostled past.

"Well. You look like a mountain man. Who chops down trees and then goes home and reads a book with your glasses that I know you don't really need all the time."

He had that strange look on his face again, the same one from when she turned in her paper. A slight traction on the side of her head had her looking down, and she saw that he'd caught some of her loose hair and had it twirled around his finger.

"Mistletoe!" some blonde woman cooed when she walked past them, gesturing above them with a sloshing blue cup. "Just blame it on the old gods," she stage whispered as she stalked off.

Jon raised an eyebrow at Sansa. "A mountain man?"

"Who else owns so much flannel and waffle weave?" Sansa huffed, and Jon set his free hand on her hip and leaned in close. There was a heartbeat where he hesitated, giving her the opportunity to back away and meld into the crowd, but she'd watched him chew on a pencap from across the coffee shop before and—oh, god, she just imagined him sucking on her finger, what the _hell_ was wrong with her—

It was a quick kiss, somewhere between a brush of the lips and a "100% French," one that left her with the sudden realization that she knew what his tongue felt like against her lips and the desire to know what his teeth feel like. She chased him for another, felt his exhale where her body sank against his just a bit more, and let him open her mouth with his for a proper kiss that required angled necks and closed eyes. (Because who kept her eyes open during a kiss like that?)

"You're going to be home over the holidays, right?" Jon asked when they pull back. "I'm gonna take you out to dinner. I'm not your TA anymore so I can do that."

Sansa smiled and plucked at the V of his undershirt. "Now I know why you want me to take Wren."

Jon's eyes twinkled at her a bit from behind his glasses—part merriment, part bourbon. "And don't take Robinson. Although…I wouldn't mind it so much if you decided to show up at my office to do a repeat of shyly turning in a paper in person."

Something warmer than alcohol coursed through her veins, and Sansa tapped her finger in the notch of his clavicles. "As long as you read over my papers and tell me if they're good or bad."

"Deal," Jon said, and they sealed it with a kiss.

* * *

_Fin._


End file.
